


Christmas Breakfast

by Whreflections



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Food is Not People, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 00:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13154961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: Hannibal and Will are still fitting into whatever it is they're next going to become.  There's a lot of unknowns in the air, but they're staying at Will's childhood home, and Hannibal knows one thing he can do.  He can make Will breakfast on Christmas day.





	Christmas Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dancey94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancey94/gifts).



> Tis shorter than I originally intended, but a short scene ending up fitting the recipe best, I think. I really hope you like it <3 Merry Christmas!! 
> 
> (also, recipe is modified from a family one; if anyone wants to try it it's good I promise XD If you are not from the south/don't know about biscuits and gravy, you pour this concoction over some cut in half fluffy side up biscuits. ...the bread, not the cookie, XD)

It wasn’t often Hannibal could beat Will out of bed. 

More often than not, they woke together, or had the illusion of it—his eyes would open to find Will watching him, inscrutable.  If there had been no fondness in his eyes, that would have been harder to bear, but the more mornings Hannibal woke up in his bed, the sleepier he looked.  Less wary, more the look given to a familiar constant than a potential hazard. 

He hadn’t come here to be a hazard. 

This morning, Hannibal had plans, and he’d stayed up all night to be sure he could keep to them.  It hadn’t been hard; he’d slept well enough lately that a single night alone with the quiet of Will’s breath and that of the dogs around them had seemed an odd respite.  Before the blue light of morning could begin to creep around the edges of Will’s shades, Hannibal eased himself out of bed, pausing in the middle of the room to ensure Will’s breathing hadn’t changed. 

It was even, and steady, and Hannibal let the cold nose on the back of his ankle from a curious, sleepy onlooker nudge him forward toward the door.  The hinges he’d taken the time to oil days ago didn’t squeak, and he closed it behind him to make his way to the kitchen, and seek his prize. 

The recipe was old, written on the back of a notecard in Will’s mother’s hand.  She’d used the lined side for making notes, short, in various levels of haste and colors of pen—

_Craig’s father likes it with more sausage_

_Extra pepper for Vic_

_Red and green bell peppers on Christmas_

_Double the recipe if you’re taking it into the office!_

_Will doesn’t like the peppers; use the food processor_

_Don’t forget Will’s cinnamon toast_

Hannibal skimmed his fingers along the lower line, considering.  Will had always eaten peppers at his table.  Then again, there were many years between the Will he’d fed, and the Will Grace Graham had written about, here.  They were, in some ways, different creatures entirely.  The longing to know what she had, to see what she had seen, crawled beneath his skin with such steady force he had hardly felt it coming before it filled his throat.  

He swallowed against it, and turned the card over again.  For the title, her script was different, looping, but the rest spilled out below it in uneven lines, a straightforward recipe that had likely been made many times before it was ever written down. 

**_Sausage and Sage_ **

****

_Ingredients_

_1 lb Sausage (hot or mild- use mild if it’s for the babies)_

_A little less than half of a green bell pepper, chopped_

_3/8 cup Flour (the regular kind)_

_2 1/2 cups whole milk_

_1/4 tsp sage_

_1 tsp salt_

_1 tsp ground black pepper_

_Directions_

_Brown sausage in skillet and remove._

_Cut or crumble cooked sausage._

_Put the chopped bell pepper in the skillet; cook it until it won’t be crunchy when you bite into it_

_Add sausage back to skillet with bell pepper_

_Slowly add flour, milk and spices_

_Stir until it’s just right—taste it to make sure you added enough spice and the taste is just right, too_

Hannibal had followed far more complex recipes, all in all, but never one he’d so feared getting wrong.  Unless he’d made it for himself, from a copy he’d carried with him to Wolf Trap, Will likely hadn’t had this in years.  Getting it wrong now would…

Well.  In the grand scheme of their future, it might not mean much, but it would settle in Hannibal’s chest like an omen.  Whether they would become fugitives together or he would remain one alone seemed at most moments a still suspended question, hanging perilously over the bed they’d come to share.  

Hannibal could do with a few good omens.  

He worked quietly, his hands so careful with the blade on the cutting board that there were moments he only just missed his fingers, closer calls than he’d had in many years.  Perhaps his nerves affected that, too, torn as he was between the calm that always came over him working in a kitchen and the wary edge of listening for Will to wake, ears trained toward the bedroom for the creak of the mattress and the click and clatter of dog nails.  

They didn’t come until he was adding the flour, until it was imperative that Hannibal not look away.  A wrong move, here, and the gravy wouldn’t turn out.  Given that he already wasn’t certain about the consistency (‘just right’ was entirely relative, and he was no southerner), he wasn’t eager to set himself up for a mistake.  

Still, he couldn’t resist a quick glance—though he needn’t have bothered.  Will was almost to him already, his hair sleep mussed, his arm warm when it wrapped around Hannibal’s waist.  His chin dug into the ball of Hannibal’s shoulder, not entirely comfortable and wholly welcome.  

Hannibal felt him breathe deeply, twice, catching the scent and feeling it out. 

“Did you remember the cinnamon toast?”  he asked, rough with sleep, but full of something else entirely.  Promise?  Approval? 

Hannibal couldn’t analyze too close, not with his mind so distracted.  He’d forgotten the toast, too busy mulling over the gravy.  The sharp jab of his spoon must have said it for him—or the lack of cinnamon in the air—but there was no reproach in Will’s quiet laughter.  None, either, in the kiss he pressed to Hannibal’s shoulder, warm through the thin cotton of his shirt.  

“Well, it’s Christmas.  If you can ask nice, I’ll make you a piece, too.” 


End file.
